


Who Can Relate

by Withstarryeyes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Depressed Lance (Voltron), Fainting, Gen, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Hurt No Comfort, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Keith/Lance (Voltron), Suicidal Lance (Voltron), Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-14 15:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16043252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withstarryeyes/pseuds/Withstarryeyes
Summary: Lance has never been depressed, at least he doesn’t think he has. He’s been pretty happy most of his life being a street rat, climbing over gates and playing futbol in alleys with his friends. He’s used to a lot of nights on beaches, the light flickering up from a bonfire, cracked voices, tears shed under the stars for what they want, what they need. He talked about space like it was his lifeline, and 18 years after being born in a candy-coated Cuba, he’s accepted into the Garrison.





	1. Chapter 1

Lance has never been depressed, at least he doesn’t think he has. He’s been pretty happy most of his life being a street rat, climbing over gates and playing futbol in alleys with his friends. He’s used to a lot of nights on beaches, the light flickering up from a bonfire, cracked voices, tears shed under the stars for what they want, what they need. He talked about space like it was his lifeline, and 18 years after being born in a candy-coated Cuba, he’s accepted into the Garrison.

It’s grey there. Grey uniforms, grey people, grey lessons. He spends his first few weeks drawing Spanish words on the wall with his fingers as he does his homework, humming the first few notes of the song his Madre always sings. His heart hurts but then he meets Hunk and everything sort of clicks into place. He’s getting good grades, good enough to become a pilot and he gets to be childishly competitive with Keith, always trying to beat his scores, fly better than him. He doesn’t succeed but he’s no stranger to second place and he’ll get better, he always does. He’s scrappy, it’s why he was always the best at futbol. He wasn’t the fastest or the strongest but he was the best at getting into small spaces, at shooting impossible goals. He was good at teamwork. He misses that most about Cuba, he thinks. The intense feeling of family everywhere, from the markets, to school, to home, all his brothers and sisters always piling on top of him, them always hanging out. Hunk and Pidge are a sort of family here and Lance thinks he can make it, it’s close enough he can shape into this new mold. 

He doesn’t become a fighter pilot, at least not until Keith drops out, and he mopes about it for a week but he never stops making jokes, never stops doing homework, never stops taking chances. He drags Hunk out in the middle of the night more, watches Pidge code more, writes his Madre more. But he makes it. And then the Lion crashes on earth and he gets to see space, gets to live his dream and it’s exciting, until it’s not. 

He’s tethered to the Earth, Lance realizes not too long in. He likes the smell of saltwater, the chlorine that infects his skin like a uniform after he goes swimming, the soothing rush of rain on a day he wants to spend outside, splashing in the biggest puddle he can find. There’s not enough water here and Lance finds himself spending too long in the showers, trying to suck every part of it out and infuse it into his veins. It doesn’t help that Keith is back and he can’t stand Lance. Shiro’s nice but he’s distant and Lance knows he’s the worst of the bunch here, can't really do anything right. Hunk’s a great cook and he’s the protector of them, Pidge is smarter than the rest of them can even dream, Keith’s a warrior and Shiro’s the best leader Lance has ever been under but Lance… he supposes he has a purpose but it’s hard to remember in this vortex. 

It’s lonelier here than he anticipated. He thinks it’s dangerous after he stops eating, after he stops sleeping, definitely once he gets hurt on a mission and he welcomes the pain. But he can’t bring himself to tell anyone. At home, he could tell his Madre, his Papa, his siblings. At the Garriso,n he could tell Hunk or Pidge and even though they’re here with him it’s different. He’s not someone they have to get along with, he’s not their only friend, their only partners, and admitting that he feels like he’s dying is too hard. He doesn’t want to seem weak. 

His knees ache as he stands and Shiro’s going off about something, Lance can’t focus enough to grasp the words from exiting his brain. He feels off and everytime he shifts he pulls against the fresh wound in his side, the one from the last mission, the pain that grounds him. “Lance,” a hiss erupts in his ear and he startles into standing straight, gasping. Keith is glaring at him out the corner of his eye, the violet gaze cuts through him like the blistering cold. “Can you pay attention?”

“Yes, Keith,” he spits back but it doesn’t have as much venom as usual. He’s dizzy and his mouth feels like he tried to dry swallow a handful of cotton balls. Shiro continues talking and Lance can see his lips move but he can’t hear anything. His heart is thrumming in his ears, drowning out everything around him. 

He sees Hunk give him a worried look and Pidge is starting to fidget in the way she does when she’s annoyed. Keith is standing by him, shoulders tense and arms folded over his chest. They can see he’s not paying attention, Lance closes his eyes and tries to focus back in but once they’re shut they’re not coming back open. His knees go weak and he sways back and forth, a cold sweat breaking across his back and the top of his forehead. The thrumming is louder now and his heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest. He feels like he’s dying but before he can squeak out his concerns everything begins to spin and all he can hear is the tinny whistle of his breathing before nothing. 

He wakes not too soon after. Keith has his arms wrapped around the middle of his torso and Shiro has just managed to get down to his knees, placing a hand across Lance’s forehead. His tongue is heavy and his vision is blurry, he can’t hear anything. 

He blinks a few more times for clarity and by the time he can actually understand things, Keith has laid him on the ground and Shiro’s fully stripped him of his armor. Fear snakes its way up Lance’s spine and curls around his wrists, directing them to cover his side, the huge gash that sits there like a confession. Keith recoils when he sees it, hissing and Shiro looks up with too much understanding in his grey eyes. 

“Lance, how long have you had this? Why didn’t you tell any of us?” There are questions but Shiro’s tone isn’t asking, it’s demanding, it’s sure. He knows. He knows Lance did it on purpose, he knows Lance is keeping things from him. He can see the tell-tale ribs protruding just a little too much, the bags under his eyes that don’t match the rest of them. It’s like he stumbled upon pestilence rocked off his white horse. 

“I-I, um,” Lance swallows thickly, turning onto his side. Keith lets out a growl and punches the ground by Lance’s head. 

“Stupid! God Lance. Why? Do you not know what’s at stake here?” He’s heaving, red flush to his cheeks, eyes looking at Lance like he betrayed them all. A sob sounds from over by Hunk and Pidge shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot. Shiro’s unusually quiet, looking at Lance like he wants an explanation. 

He doesn’t have one and Shiro seems to realize it when Lance opens his mouth and nothing comes out but static, because then, finally, the last one of the team breaks his eye contact and gets up, starting to leave.

“Stick him in a pod, Keith.” It’s cold, distant, and Lance would give anything to see Shiro look back and check that he can get up okay. Instead, Shiro disappears into the castle, footsteps in military rhythm. 

“Hunk you take him. I can’t look at him, “ Keith mumbles before stomping off behind Shiro. Pidge leaves without a word, and Lance curls onto his side, tucking his chin against his knees. 

Hunk’s hands are warm and the heat seeping from his palms have Lance spilling his red hot tears down his cheeks. He sniffles weakly into his knees and lets Hunk manhandle him, lets him turn him to lay flat on his back. The tears pool by his ears and he can feel the defeated dimpling of his chin, the wavering of the world. 

“Hunk, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” It falls flat, Hunk doesn’t say a word, just picks Lance up and shuts him in a pod. Just before the pod closes, Hunk finally looks at him. 

“We care about you Lance, I hope you know that,” Hunk says and the words whirl in Lance’s ears like dandelion seeds and then the door shuts and he’s plunged into sleep. 

He dreams of Cuba. He’s with his Madre and sibling as the little store at the end of the road. He’s unwrapping a chile mango sucker for his sister as he mother pays and his lips are curled around one of his own. The sun’s out and it filters into the shop, sending shadows of a futbol dancing across the aisles. His hair is soaking wet from the ocean and his skin is a deep tan, freckles erupting over his shoulders and cheekbones. It smells like spice and saltwater and Lance hands off the sucker to his sister, pulling her up into his arms to rest against his hip. She gurgles up at him with wide, blue eyes, and plunges the treat into her mouth, staining her mouth with chile powder. 

His house is dark when they return home and Lance frowns at how _wrong_ it feels now that they’re there. The couch is different, torn and weathered like it was picked off the side of the street and he feels cold despite there not being any AC. He can hear his Madre rustling in the kitchen, putting down the groceries but when he turns there’s nothing there... but a castle? It’s empty. Lance steps back, and his footsteps echo down the corridors to stick in his brain like quills. He trips backwards over something and he falls for what feels like an eternity, shutting his eyes for the impact. 

He wakes up on the floor in the infirmary alone. He can still feel trickles of the Cuban sun across his body, can taste the tangy mango on his tongue, but he’s shivering and his skin is pale. He’s still in space. His side lacks the comforting twang of pain when he stands and it feels like he’s lost something all over again. 

He stumbles across the infirmary to grab his clothes and he slides his hoodie on over his bare chest, stepping into his jeans and socks. His stomach gives a weak reminder for food. It hasn’t done that in weeks. Two steps into the hallway he runs into Keith. 

“You’re out,” Keith says, distant in every aspect of the word. 

“Yeah, I am,” he clears his throat, “where is everyone, I want to talk…”

Keith scowls and begins to move, pausing when Lance doesn’t follow, “They’re in the kitchen, keep up.”

Guilt is thick in Lance’s step and he feels like he’s breathing it in in desperate gulps. They’re mad at him, he supposes it’s fair. He would be too if it was any of the others. But...he hopes they understand where he was...where he _is_. Distantly, he feels a little bit angry.

The kitchen goes silent when Keith walks in towing Lance behind him and Lance suddenly has the urge to run away. He halfway turns to leave when Hunk catches his wrist and pulls him into a hug. He presses his nose into Lance’s hair and rubs a hand down Lance’s back. Lance has hurt Hunk enough to know this is how he shows forgiveness. He suspects the rest of Voltron won’t be so merciful. 

“Well, what do you want to tell us?” Keith demands when he and Hunk break apart. Lance sits in the chair furthest from the paladins, and brings his legs up to his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts because there’s nowhere else to begin, “I was--”

“Stupid?” Keith cuts in and Shiro shoots him a glare but holds his tongue. Lance deflates and lowers his gaze to the ground, the stinging anger begining to rise.

“Yes, I was. But, you have to understand that it’s hard for me here.” He waves off Keith’s angry stance with a pleading wave and, miraculously it works, “I have a big family back home. But here I feel like an outsider. Keith you’re close to Shiro. Allura and Coran are always together. Pidge practically sleeps in Hunk’s room as they work over plans. I don’t, and I’ve tried to involve myself, a lot of times it’s met with how busy you guys are. Yes, we’re all a part of Voltron, but you all have places, jobs. I’m just, the goofball. If there wasn’t a blue lion you wouldn’t even need me. I let myself get bad, too fast to really stop it, and I should have told one of you. I know that, but God, it’s not like any of you noticed,” Lance finishes and he looks up, surprised at his last statement. It’s true though, and he can feel himself solidify as he admits it. He was bad and he was wrong and damn if he’s not lonely but after all this time, after not sleeping or eating or getting help for his pain, it’s not like the people he sees everyday ever noticed. And maybe that’s his problem. In Cuba _someone_ would’ve noticed, someone would have cared even if they sedated him to force him to sleep. 

Shiro stands up suddenly and Lance lets his gaze flicker over to him. He expects to be yelled at, or abandoned again but Shiro goes to stand behind him and places his hands on his shoulders. “You’re right, we should have noticed.”

Pidge and Hunk both nod. Keith avoids Lance’s stare, as close to guilt as Keith will ever show to Lance, he thinks. “But we’re going to be better, and you are going to have to tell us when you get these feelings.”

It’s not perfect by a landslide but really, it's all Lance can ask for. Maybe it's even all he can pray for. 


	2. Chapter 2

They let him slide for a week longer, letting him skip out on meals, letting him not sleep, letting him be a mess at training. And then Hunk starts dragging him to breakfast and Shiro won’t let him leave until he finishes half a bowl. Pidge stays in Lance’s room until he falls asleep, and while she never sleeps, they know having someone there will force him to try out of guilt. Keith pushes him hard at training and they don’t stop until Lance wins at least once or they’re both so out of breath they can no longer stand on their legs. It works, Lance thinks, at least for now. He still misses home like a missing limb and he still feels like an outsider but there’s something comforting in how they all linger around him, more conscious than ever that he’s there. Allura asks him about his night routine and sometimes they spend Saturdays slathered in lotion and face masks, telling stories about their days at the Garrison, or the university on Allura’s home planet. Shiro invites him on his morning runs and Hunk makes him help cook. Pidge programs him a mood tracker that he can carry around with him. It’s sweet. 

He’s on the couch now with his legs tucked under him, sweatshirt pooling around his still too-thin frame. He can feel eyes piercing the back of his neck and he fights the urge to squirm, instead cooly flipping the page of his book. “Want to talk about something?”

He hears a huff in reply and when he looks up he catches a flash of Keith as he plops down on the couch beside him. Lance puts down the book, exhaustion already settling onto him like a thick blanket, smothering. He feels a little nervous and Keith stares at him and he trades in the view of Keith’s violet eyes for fiddling with the strings on his sweatshirt. 

“Why’d you do it?” Keith asks and… it’s not as bitter as Lance expected it to be. It still sends him reeling a little and he sucks in a shaky breath, but it doesn’t slice through him. 

“I dunno,” Lance replies, eyes glazed over. He doesn’t, not really. “I guess I just felt small and alone. And those are two very good reasons.” He tries to smile and bring back the facade of who he presented himself to be but Keith catches his wrist and he can tell it looks pained more than anything. 

“You’re not alone, you know. We’re a team.”

Lance quirks up a shoulder in a half-shrug, ”I know but I’m really just here to fill the color spectrum.” And then he’s moving to shut himself in his room. It wasn’t a bad talk and Lance thinks he might’ve needed it. He hadn’t really thought of his reasons since he saw the gash in the mirror after the battle and pressed along the edges, savoring the pain and feeling the sinking pit of shame in his stomach. He knew it was wrong but at the time, it was what he needed. So he patched it up haphazardly and moved on, knowing it’d be there in the morning was comforting.

He doesn’t realize he’s not breathing until he the room begins to tilt and Lance scrambles to press his back against the wall, tucking his shaking hands underneath his armpits and trying, unsuccessfully to steady his breathing. It feels like he’s dying in a new way, and he thinks he honestly might be until it dies down and he feels like an idiot. He had a panic attack, Hunk used to have them at the Garrison all the time. 

It scares him enough to have him seeking out comfort and Lance grabs his pillow and blanket and walks down the hall to Hunk’s room. He only has to knock once before the door swings open and Lance is tilting his chin up to look at Hunk, half-asleep. He didn’t realize it had gotten so late. He wonders where Pidge is, belatedly, but Hunk is ushering him into his room and Lance’s legs are wobbly. He settles on the corner of Hunk’s bed. 

“I don’t feel good, Hunk.” A hand snakes out to brush the hair off his forehead and they explore the skin there before pulling back. 

“You don’t feel feverish. When did you begin feeling sick? Do you want me to get Coran?”

He shakes his head, feeling tears well in his eyes. “I just... needed someone.”

“Oh…” Hunk’s arms are warm around him and he turns to press his nose in the crook of Hunk’s neck, shutting out all the light from the room. He smells spicy and Lance remembers Hunk had been trying to make a Hawaiian dish up here for the past month or so, never finding the right balance. It reminds him of his Madre’s cooking and he wishes he could taste Maduros again _. _

“Did you...do anything?”

“No. I’m okay.”

A drawn-out sigh meets his ears and Hunk hums unhappily against him, he can feel the sound vibrate across his chest from the contact. “You’re not okay and we’re going to talk about this because I think the issue the first time is that you didn’t but frankly I’m tired and you look exhausted so it can wait till the morning.”

“Thanks, Hunk.” Gratitude tastes like caramel across Lance’s lips and he feels oddly at home curled across Hunk’s back, blanket firmly tucked under his chin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you guys mind if I made this a multi-chapter fic? I'm thinking of exploring the healing process of all of them after they figure out Lance isn't doing so hot, and I'm thinking of making it a slow burn Klance fic. Let me know your thoughts, and if I don't decide to expand it past this at least it's a nice two-shot.


	3. Chapter 3

He gets worse the next week and the one after, it’s not until the date pops up on Pidge’s mood tracker that he knows why. His Madre’s birthday is in a few days. He goes through his routine like a man possessed, barely feeling anything and going on autopilot. Keith is ruthless on him, taunting him to try and get some energy into their sparring, and shouting insults when it doesn’t work. Like Lance doesn’t know this is getting old. Shiro tries to talk to him about it, but he doesn’t understand and Lance doesn’t think he ever will. 

He ends up on the main deck of the castle the night of his Madre’s birthday. He traces his veins with his fingers, trying to remember what it feels like to have Spanish words in his mouth, remembering the flickering candlelight of his home. He fumbles with the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a lighter, watching it burn in front of his eyes. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” Keith growls, and then adds under his breath, “it’s like you don’t want to get better.” Lance doesn’t have it in him to get angry. 

“It’s my Madre’s birthday,” Lance says and watches Keith’s face for a reaction. It gets softer but there’s still the steel cut gaze and the judgemental pinch to his jaw that Lance can’t shake out of his brain. He rubs circles onto his palm, returns his gaze to the stars. “I’m not just homesick you know. I- my Madre let me join the Garrison as long as I promised to make it back to her in one piece.”

“Plenty of people die, she must’ve known that going in.”

“She did, but… I grew up in Cuba. We’re not stupid, we know it’s not the best. I mean don’t get me wrong I’d never trade my childhood for anything here in America but there’s stuff you can’t do with the government. Things instilled in you before you can even picture a jail cell, fear that crawls under your skin when you come home a little too late or act a little too recklessly and your padres chew you out, panic still evident in their eyes. We were made to survive, we were forged in alleys and poverty and the constant vice of communism.” Keith’s gone deathly silent, it spurs him on. “Every year on her birthday we would all try to get her gifts but she’d tell us off, say that all she wanted were her children to be safe under her roof. All she wanted was a complete family, all she wanted was us. And then I went to the Garrison and when I got on the airplane to fly out she told me that again, almost like a warning. For her birthday, all she wanted was to know I was safe.”

He stops then, because his chest is tight and his vision is blurring. He can feel the hands of sorrow pulling on his eyelids, clumping his eyelashes together and scraping their nails down his cheeks in streams of tears. He feels the rumble of his shoulders and Keith tenses next to him. He breaths until he gets it under control, his voice is creaky when he clears it. “They must think I’m dead. And now… I know she would’ve held out hope until her birthday, thinking that if I missed it I must really be gone.”

He shuts his eyes and images of his madre pop up in his mind. Her laying on the couch in her apron, eyes focused on the door the entire day, just praying that the soldados were wrong, that they got the wrong Lance, that he’d come up. “The worst part is that I know she’s gonna be mad when we get back.”

“Why would she be mad?” The question startles him and Lance jerks at the outburst, having almost forgotten the red paladin was even there. 

“Wouldn’t you be? I could go home, we all could, at any time. But I’ve chosen to stay.”

“That’s ridiculous you’re not choosing Voltron over your family. If we don’t stop the Galra there won’t be a family to go back to.”

“It’s not the same. I’m not Pidge. She’s doing this all for her family, she’s in it for them. What am I in it for?”

Keith doesn’t have an answer to that and they sit there in a few more tense, silent, minutes before Lance stands up, hands running through his hair. “I’ve got to go to bed, we’ve got training in the morning.” All he can hope is that Keith gets it more now, actually understands where he’s coming from. 

“Lance,” Keith’s voice stalls him and he turns around. He watches Keith’s adam apple bob. “The lighter, what were you doing with it?”

“I wasn’t going to hurt myself,” he says instead of explaining that every year on her birthday they lit the number of candles that she was turning. He doesn’t say that his childhood was flame-lit. That’s something for him and him alone. 

He’s not depressed because he has a mental illness, he’s not even just homesick, he’s guilty. He let his familia down and there’s no denying it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna see more of this please let me know!! I'm still not sure how long I'm going to make this fic and the kudos and comments help me gauge interest. 
> 
> Thanks,   
> C


End file.
